Dear Cousin Bubba...

Frank Incense
666 Redneck Road
Yahoo Trailer Estates, Lot #69
Tonguebite, Alaska 24728
December 25, 2006

Dear Cousin Bubba,

This here’s Frank, peckering out a howdy to ya on my Macrosoft abuser-friendly peeboard!   I know it's been quite a while ago and you've probably misbegotten, but we both sang barely toned together in the Repeating The 8th Grade Glee Club. Can you hear mi now? (DOH !!!)

I realize yer only my second cousin twice removed, but am prayin' my class off that this relatively minor retail will not pie in the face of our Southern rooted-and-tooted Theory of Relativity. As Andy Warhol is so fond of spraying, this is, after all, the most punderful time of the year...

I’ve written every single friend and/or relative I’ve seen featured on America’s Most Wanted, but all of them, it seems, are completely discombobulated and have not so much as a snot to kiss in, which accounts for their dehydrated responses to my please. The only one who failed to respond at all is step-cousin thrice removed Mary, who I’m told is driving a cab in the next village over from us, Hackinthesack, Alaska, and is therefore unavailable for convents. I’d pretty much arrived at my twit’s end because I'd dismembered that you’d chosen Chastity over Bono and entered the Priests' Hood, and I now feel a keen need for speed in confessing to you, Father Bubbmeister... you’re my only Pope. In fact, to be repletely Frank, I have to say – if not upon on your most pontificated second cousin twice behooved, who can  you blow a fly on?

You see, Your Holey Nest, I’m in debt up to my softballs, and the buzz on the teat is that a local Pakistanian Raffia Godfather has put out a Contact Snit on my life. This, of course, could entrail anything from having my face, peeflaps, and various and sundry other free-swinging appendages permanently misfigured... to being fished out of the Mrs. Slippery River, dead as a whore's nail, with my twin peaks all hacked off in a car trunk. Things have gotten so can-rancorous that I dare not venture even as far as to K-Mart's Outhouse Screw Light Specials without donning a flatulence jacket for my own projection.

It started out binocuously enough, but now all of this hula hoopla has taken on a ginormous strife of it’s own. What I thought was destined to be naught more that a hair-pounding, pulse-raising theft of dentures has masticated into an industrial-strength, Super Big Gulp-sized dry socket!

Me and my partner in grime, Penelope Hoobiebatch, were co-workers at the Bite Me Tender Orthophonics and Denture Modification Lab, Incorrugated, located in the bustling berg of Tonguebite, Alaska. 'Twas the Night Shift before Cannabis, and me and Penny were in the Break Room, grinding our own earwax and making plans to attend a Kwanza Eve taping of the Jerry Springer Show. It suddenly spawned on us that we were lawfully close to a being day late and holler snort on scratch, if ya know what I mean. Out of sheer Desiderata, we incubated together and hatched a pan to get our coven mitts on some bread – we decided to pull a heist on a Swiss tank.

The skinny on the torridly obese twosome said to be co-piloting the tank was that they were: 1. conjoined twins, 2. both unarmed, and 3. transporting a buttload of secretly sirloined, 14-carrot gold Freddy Krugerans to the Scova Notion border. After giving the matter serious twitterpation, Penny and me derided, "how dangerous could it be to defecate two really fat, well connected guys with no arms from a buttload of golden Freddies?" I won't subjugate you to all the glory details, but what a mangled web we weaved when first we practiced to retrieve! To make a vertically challenged story even shorter, and quoting our late, great President Sticky Dick Nixon, let me just say this about that: those Swissers ain’t as piece-loving and light in the snowshoes as they’d have the United Stations believe! And their incrediburgably buxom Swiss Army Wives ain’t nothin’ to wheeze at, neither!

ANYhoo… Hoobiebatch and me wound up registered in adjoining rooms at the Crowbar Hotel over the horror day weekend, until Bog the County Hunter showed up with his breasticularly swell endowed wife. They made us pray, “Ask not what your Bounty can do for you – ask what you can do for your Bounty," then bailed us out right after our interstitial Municipal Court Attainment Spearing. And so it is that I've come to this sorry state of a flair, my Popettish cuz... on the lamb and udderly sheepishly, I find my self scrotally forked and prostate on your kneeling bench with nothing but a sheepskin Trojan to my name – begging of your Worshiped Ship a ginamic bumbled pie slice of your God-and-Congregation-driven, Poor-On-The-Floor compassion and coffers.

PLEASE, Your Most Right She-less Second Cousin Father Bubba... give us this day our prayed-for bread! Penelope and I will solemnly pair on our very hives to prove to you, Your Wholly Wealthiness, that if you’ll but tithe us over just this once, we’ll forever pray you back. Nourish us with greenback manna now and we’ll never brownout your Confessional with fertilizer patties again. We stand before you concretely willing to stare upon my own bi-curious Mammie's wife that your mangelic offering will be forever gratefully abused. As a matter of fact, Our Fatherhood Who Art in Heavenly Bucks, it's so brittle-nipple cold here we fully intend to use the very first  10% of your most degenerate gift to hail Mary’s cab, make like all-famous hockey players, and get the puck off the ice!

We can't wait to rear back from you, and we're both exposing warmest fishes and lots of loaves to your conglomeration and all the demotedly fod-gearing, Rotund Little Sisters of the Pun Nuns in yer perish. Until we squeak again, we'll be spicing up the passing thyme by scratching our watches, winding our butts, and taking turns thumbing Penelope's twiddle.

Forever Yours in Bead Fumbling and Keeping it All in the Family,
Your Reverently Agnostic Cousin Frank and Common-Law Cousin Twice Removed, Penelope